


Twisted Sheets

by OhmieBunnerz



Category: Banana Bus Squad
Genre: Bad stuff happens, Blood and Gore, Cat and Mouse, Dark Comedy, Deception, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Major Character Injury, Murder Kink, Murder Mystery, Power Imbalance, Power Play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:48:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28104228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhmieBunnerz/pseuds/OhmieBunnerz
Summary: The airline overbooked the flight, and strangers are stuck sharing a room. Too bad they get off on the wrong foot, and there's a dark connection between them. How long until they figure out just what that is? Costs are made to get there, good and evil colliding as the world spirals around them, leaving only insanity and their disturbing bond.A story of cat and mouse, wit, determination, destruction, and ultimately justice.
Relationships: John | KryozGaming/SMii7Y
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	1. Malted Milk and Curiosity

An adult toy and a bag of snow are stuck in the airport toilet.

“Huh.” John stares at it, debating if he should go to the other stall, the one with a broken handle. It’s tempting, and so is that bag of guaranteed blacklisting from every airline.

John has been stuck at the airport for the last three hours. It’s long enough that he’s beginning to question public behavior and just how many people abide by it. In only three hours he has seen a set of triplets cry because their tablets are dead, a vending machine empty except for black licorice, and a pair of wives scream they should be allowed to use fast food gift cards to pay for their flight.

It’s certainly a trip, and he hasn’t even gotten on the plane yet.

He goes to the broken handle stall and leaves the crime scene alone in the neighboring stall. His blue mask is pulled off so it’s hanging off one ear. The sink is only lukewarm, never hot or cold, using the water to wash the stress from his face. As his fingers brush back through his hair, someone walks into the bathroom. They check one stall and then the other, cringing, the motion only making John chuckle.

“How on earth- I hope you’re not the one that left the sex toy behind,” the guy raises his brow as John ties back his bleached locks.

“Nah, brother, that ain’t me. I recycle like a good kind of dude,” he says halfheartedly, snapping the black elastic into place. “Good luck with the first one, the handle doesn’t work.” John tightens his backpack strap over one shoulder and heads out just as the man swears in frustration.

He gets it; so many people go nuts in an airport, always left with this belief their flight is on its way. Announcements are made, people get excited, and then it’s delayed for even longer. Hope is constantly in the air like the fresh Sinnabon's upstairs, and disappointment thicker than the food vouchers handed out.

John looks down at his own booklet. It ain’t much, but it has drink and food coupons, freebies, and needed accommodation if his plane decides to crash up in the Arctic. His flight is only an hour late, and it should be here soon, so he opts for a milkshake upstairs. A quick order and a slow wait later, he’s got that sweet, malted milk shake in hand, eyes gliding over the crowd. One sip, two sips, then three. He sees people all over, and wearing colorful masks. Back down to his drink, he pretends everyone is on essential travel.

“What do you mean I can’t put bacon and peanut butter in a shake?” A voice catches John’s attention, and his eyes lazily twitch to the side, watching. He sees a defeated figure at the counter, and, upon further inspection, a shiny buckle. John grins and gazes forward again.

Old women, children with red caps, and blonde ladies with Stirbucks; people wearing the same outfit, service Labradors in green collars, and janitors all with the same wedding band. He catches sight of them all and the little details they carry. Funny how being trapped within an airport for so long would bring out this observant side of himself. Sadly, his ability to do so is ruined when the bacon and peanut butter debater sits across from him.

John raises a dark brow, eyelids heavy. “Hello? Can I help you?”

The stranger smiles and holds up his drink, mask in front of him. It’s like he knows about John and his people watching ways. “Can you believe they lack the nuts to put delicious bacon in a shake? Funny, because they have peanuts galore back there.”

“Interesting.” John observes him for a moment longer then looks over the railing to the crowd below. “But I’m more concerned about how many dumbasses are here for fun times.”

The stranger chuckles and steals a sip of his peanut butter shake. “More than you could ever guess. It makes you wonder how many people are gonna get sick then run to the hospital… but enough of that. What kind of shake you got, huh?”

“Malted milk.”

“Malted milk? Wait, so you got milk to go with your milk. What’s the difference?”

“It’s better than the fucking disaster you were going for.” A grin, and the stranger laughs.

“Wow, rude. So, where are you heading to?”

Too many questions. John notes the radiating, yet frozen smile on this stranger’s face. Over the guy’s shoulder, he sees the nearby tv showing off images of hot news, which is never ending these days. He must look grim, because the stranger turns around, curious. John quickly says “Los Angeles.”

That catches the guy’s attention, arm still over the chair but looking right at John. “Los Angeles? But California is having the biggest outbreak in the country.”

“I got special business there; they need me,” he says. “This isn’t for fun.”

“Hmm, well, we’ll be going completely different ways.”

“That’s usually how it goes in airports.” He leans back. “Why are you sitting with me anyway? You find me cute?” He hopes to ward the guy off, but the bastard only brings back that persistent smile.

“Hilarious, but nah. If you stopped admiring me, you’d notice all the tables are either taken or taped off. Sure, I could’ve bugged someone else, but you looked interesting.”

“A shame, cause I’m heading off. You’ll have to find someone else to chat with.” John scoops the bag off the back of his chair and goes to stand up. His mask slips into place, and no, not just the fabric one. Luckily, the stranger doesn’t bug him anymore as he heads out of the food court and makes his way downstairs so he can hopefully find a place to rest his head until his flight is later announced. Sadly, he only just finds some chairs before he notices he can’t move them because they’re bolted into the cold, hard floor. A low sigh escapes his dry lips and he takes a seat in one of the firmly planted seats and closes his eyes. He only just closes his eyes when an announcement is made regarding a flight. He doesn’t catch the number of the flight, though he hears the location of which he is heading to. A stretch tells him he was sitting for far too long, his mind playing tricks on him for low long he was truly resting. Bones pop and he groans in pain. Best to walk over to the service desk and see what’s up.

Sure enough, he sees a group of people already waiting there to board their flight, so he speeds up to meet them. It isn’t too hard when he’s 5’12”, but his height doesn’t aid him in how long they have to wait now A flight attendant is on the radio, saying something he can’t hear from so far back. John’s just happy he won’t have to wait in the airport, endlessly strolling. It’s been too long, and he’d rather not survive on food court trash any longer.

He’s next, and the attendant takes his ticket with a smile under her face shield. He recognizes it as the same, fake smile he saw earlier from the strange guy. “What is it?” He asks, chest tightening up.

“Oh, you’ll need to see someone about this. Your seat is already taken, sir.”

“What now?”

“The flight is overbooked, and it looks like your ticket is invalid. You’ll need to see the front desk and confirm your order on the next flight. If you can move aside, I need to get everyone on board.”

John doesn’t move. “You’re kidding, right? I need to be on this flight. It’s important-”

“I’m sorry, sir, but this flight is booked solid-”

“And I bought this seat fair and square. Who’s to say the other guy isn’t the one who booked after me, but he got in line first?”

After a healthy back and forthing of John being polite so he isn’t blacklisted, he heads away, wondering what he did wrong. It’s insane how much he wants to scream and maybe stab the attendant, though he can’t blame her, he wants to get his aggression out somehow. All he does is hide it under a thick veil of disinterest.

By the time he gets to the front desk, his blood is boiling, yet the lady still smiles in an oblivious fashion under the face shield. “Hello, and how may I help you?” He hands over his ticket and explains what happened, and she’s looking on her computer for options when he hears a familiar voice.

“What happened to you?” The stranger pops up beside him, thankfully keeping a six foot distance. He hopes the distance is enough to keep the stranger from hearing anything important.

“Alright, John. I have a room for you to stay in tonight, and there’s a 10am Toronto flight tomorrow. Does that work for you?”

Shit. “Yeah, it’s fine,” he says, hoping the stranger heard nothing.

“Toronto? I thought you were going to Los Angeles?”

John grins, but it isn’t out of joy. “Nope. Toronto. We aren’t friends, so I didn’t feel like telling you.”

The stranger shrugs and hands over his ticket. “I’m just curious about people. You don’t exactly have a suitcase, so I was wondering what you were up to.”

John leans in. “You an air marshal, stranger?”

“Last time I checked… no.”

“Then stop talking to me.”

The attendant says “Mister Natrel, you also have a room to stay in till your Toronto flight tomorrow.”

The man smiles back at John, never looking at her. “Just Smitty is fine. Only my boss calls me that.”

She nervously continues. “You both have room 725.”

They whip back to her. “What?”


	2. Bed and Supper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Smitty are complete strangers. Their day is already screwed because of an overbooked flight, and now they're forced to share a room? Talk about an airline not being responsible. To make it worse, the two of them don't get along, but there's only one bed.  
>  John can't trust Smitty, and Smitty's eyes are sharp. What happens when people are forced to remain together for longer than the typical moment?

The pair stand in front of the hotel room, one contemplating locking the other out. The guy, now known as Smitty, has a small suitcase rolling behind him and a laptop bag. John wonders what could be the reason for this guy’s travel.

Smitty clears his throat as John pulls out the hotel card. “So, do you think we can agree to disagree and pretend we don’t hate each other?”

“I don’t hate you.” John opens up the door and steps in. He instantly notices a problem in the room. “Shit.”

Smitty comes in after him. “What’s the problem? Oh- Oh wait. No, they don’t really expect us to-?”

“I’m getting another room.” John turns around, but Smitty stops him. “You heard her. She said there were no rooms left.”

“But ONE bed?” John snorts. “You expect us to cuddle and catch Covid off my ass?”

Yep, that’s right. Not only are they being forced to share a room, the airline hotel booked full, they are only provided with one, Queen sized bed. John doesn’t have many limits besides for getting fisted, but he’s not sharing with a complete stranger. He would rather sleep in the airport, right there on the cold floor with only his hoodie to comfort him.

Smitty is uneasy from under his mask. “Well, we can always sue the airline after we get our respective business done. They are kind of responsible for shoving us both in a confined space… Have you been self isolating?”

John thinks back to his quiet lifestyle, watching a movie and eating popcorn, no living company required. “Yeah, I’d say so. You into grocery delivery?”

“Course. What about food delivery?”

A pause, and John asks “Isn’t that the same thing?”

“No, I mean like fast fast to your door, no dine-in or drive-thru necessary.” Smitty drops his stuff by the loveseat. This gives him an idea. “Hey, I can take the couch, and you can sleep on the bed. Less awkward that way, eh?”

John is caught off guard. “Wait, you’d do that? The loveseat is tiny as shit. You’ll be a goddamn pretzel by the time you wake up.”

Smitty shrugs and sits down. “Not a big deal. I mean, unless you get snappy with me like you did earlier. I might change my mind then.”

“And if I say some shit about your fashion sense or outdated suitcase?” John crosses his arms. “You’ll what? Share the bed with me?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s pretty gay,” he says. “You sound like you’re trying to use reverse psychology.”

Smitty snorts. “How?”

“You don’t want to sleep in the same bed as me, a total stranger, yet you’re willing to do just that if I get ‘snappy’? You know I’ll say insulting shit, you absolute cunt. Boom, just did it. You quitting the cozy loveseat for a spot beside me now?”

Smitty laughs and takes off his mask. “Whatever, man. Let’s admit this shit is worse than your president.”

“My president?” He raises a brow.

A nod. “I’m Canadian.”

“That explains why you’re going to Toronto.”

“Yeah, it’s for an important tech project I’m part of. You? Why you heading to my homeland? We got six months of winter and six months of poor sledding. Not much to enjoy besides for less bugs, organic snow cones, and Timmy’s.”

“Who’s Timmy?”

Smitty leans back into the couch, heterochromia eyes half lidded. “You don’t go to Canada often, do you?”

John considers this to be another strike. The harmless back and forthing about Canada stupidly gave the guy more information about John. He’s supposed to look like a seasoned traveler, but instead he’s an amateur in this guy’s eyes. Fucking wonderful. Just get thrown off a cliff, you dumbass.

“I’ve never gone, no.”

“Then what’s so important that’s dragging you up into my neck of the woods? Friends? Family? I mean, it has to be business considering the situation the world is in lately. I’m curious.” Smitty is all too casual, but John can still see the hidden interest in those blue, brown eyes.

_ I’m sure you are curious, ya shit. I can see right through you. Time to cut you off, bitch.  _ “The only business I have is with your mother and the strap on in her closet.”

Eyes narrow. “Again with the weird ass humor. Come on, man, I’m not that bad. Just want to know more about my hotel buddy.”

“We ain’t buddies, you little shit.” John tosses down his bags and steps over, hands firmly gripping the armrests. He looms over Smitty, the stranger this close to going out the window. “Keep your stupid, Canadian ass on this side of the room, and I’ll stay on mine. No talking.”

A snort and “Kind of hard when you’re so hard to resist tormenting. You clearly got some shit you’d rather keep under wraps, but we’re still sharing a room. I’d prefer to know more about you, and if you refuse, I’ll just tell security you tried to steal my stuff.”

John rolls his eyes and steps away, temporarily defeated. “Not like they care after setting us in a room together. I could say I strangled you and they’d shrug it off with a coupon book and your head on a stake.”

“Dramatic much?” A roll of the shoulders and Smitty relaxes deeper into the god awful red chair. Fingertips touch like he were a super villain, but his dumb self doesn’t intimidate John. He knows better than to be nervous around this little shit.

So, being smart, John goes to his bags, fishing out a laptop. Maybe if he appears busy, the little detective bitch will shut up. That’d be nice.

Still, Smitty watches him from the corner of that one, brown eye. At least he doesn’t ask anything more. His canceled attempts come from the fact John won’t give in and offer answers.

The pair ease into their respectful zones, Smitty on the loveseat and John on the bed. John is looking through digital files, squinting at the stuff he finds on it. He taps into them only to find stuff he wishes wasn’t on the laptop. Slowly, he sets the laptop aside and looks over at the tv. “Are you seriously watching CSI?”

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not.” Smitty is cozied up on the loveseat, a chunky knit blanket over his legs. “What does it matter? Mr. Business over there chillin’ on his laptop in mismatched socks.”

Sure enough, a lazy glance and John remembers he has one spotted and one striped sock on. He chuckles in his roommate’s direction. “It’s called fashion. Get with it.”

“Pretty sure mismatched socks were not on the runway this year. Or anything really.” Smitty looks back at the tv. “But yeah, I’m watching CSI. It’s fun to find plot holes and rip apart this pathetic excuse for television until the directors quit and kill themselves.”

Silence.

John blinks and gets up off the bed as quietly as possible. Maybe he should sleep in the bathtub tonight and turn himself into a goddamn pretzel. Before he can leave though, Smitty cuts in.

“Too dark?”

John, with only as much pity as the military health coverage, says “You’ve already disappointed me plenty with the shit you’ve said, done, and in between. Just go into a coma already so I can pickpocket your annoying ass.”

Smitty shakes his head. “Who says I won’t pickpocket your dumb ass?”

“Because I don’t sleep.”

“Well neither do I.”

“You have to sleep eventually, John.”

“So do you, fucker.”

“Already said I don’t sleep.”

“Nah, I’ll hit you over the head to make you go nap nap, you shit.”

When they’re about to start making threats of arson, wet willies, and domestic disputes, a knock is at the door. Wow, that’s a new record.

Smitty is first up to his feet and at the door, passing John as he goes. “‘Scuze me, psycho.” He approaches the door for some UberEats. It’s a cobb salad from down the street, and he cringes at the soggy leaves when he sets it down. “Well, that’s that. Shit.”

John grins, leaning into the wall. “Man, it’s really not your day. Miss your flight, stuck with me, and now your baby salad died.”

“Funny. I doubt whatever you’re having isn’t much better.”

“You sure about that?” And John heads over to his backpack before he stops and eyes his briefcase instead. He pops it open and grins at the brown wallet inside. “Supper is on me.”

“Aww, our first date.”

“Shut up, pussy.”

* * *

Another chapter! It's a bit of a slow story, and I'm working on including little details to pick up on. I think I rewrote this three times? hope you enjoy!! Chapters will get longer as settings and characters are introduced, and more details are necessary. For now, it's a slow introduction to these two chaotic guys and who figures out the twist first...


	3. Rum and Choked Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two are stuck in a hotel room together after their flights were overbooked and the hotels are nearly full. Given the last available room, the two are first bitter with one another, only starting the open up when John 'generously' offers to get supper on them. How supper goes however, who should know, especially when Smitty is persistently curious about his roommate and John would love it if he shut up already and, like, went into a permasleep or something. Whatever works.

_Warning for this chapter, as it includes violence and death._

* * *

“Shit, this is good.”

“Told you. Now open your mouth. Little wider. There, take it.”

Smitty eats the sushi, but he glares at John all the while. “Really?”

“What?” John smirks and leans back, clicking his chopsticks. He couldn’t help but make the sexual comment. He is secretly hoping this idiot leaves the room for good and he can have it all to himself. Maybe- “Do I need to step up my game and tell you how much sashimi I fit up my ass one time?”

The roommate raises a dark brow. “What now? Why would you need to step up your game? To weird me out?”

“Exactly. I want you the fuck out of here before I toss you over the railing.”

Smitty looks back over his shoulder, chuckling at what he sees. “There’s no balcony, dummy. It’s just a window.”

“Then I’ll break the window with your face first. No big deal. Or just drown you in the bathtub,” he says casually, popping in a dragon sushi roll. Sweet and spicy - perfect.

“You have a thing with violence. Why is that?”

“Why so many questions, cunt? Eat your goddamn sushi.” John is casual, but won’t lock eyes.

Smitty gazes around the room, eyes landing eventually on John’s backpack and suitcase. “Funny you would buy someone you hate supper. If I didn’t know better, you were trying to bribe me with food for silence.”

“Would you prefer I take out your tongue, bitch?”

“Kinky.”

Silence. Then both snicker through the rice and raw fish. Smitty tosses some white tuna rolls at John, and he manages to catch one out of ten. That’s some pretty good odds right there. They just don’t look at the ground where the evidence lies. Thank god for the two family size packs they bought. Well, that John bought. Smitty is just a freeloader, which wouldn’t be bad if he wasn’t questioning John’s intentions behind it. No one just gives free sushi. Smitty would have been a lot more obnoxious in college if he could have nailed free meals out of it.

“You try the nigiri? I think that’s what this shit is called, with the egg on top?” John gestures to the red topped sushi he holds in the chopsticks. He’s glaring at the raw fish as if it were a hooker who owed him money.

Smitty stares blankly at the sushi, both disappointed and amused at the same time. “That’s not nigiri. That’s maki, and that’s not egg. That’s fish babies.”

“So it’s egg, you shit.”

“Nah, fish babies. Look at all those red balls. Egg is yellow. Not red.”

“Bitch, they’re blood-orange. Not red.”

“Red!”

“Suck my dick and I’ll let you call these nigiri red!”

“They’re called maki!”

Eyes narrow dangerously at one another, the brunettes ready to kill. The UverEats guy doesn’t show up with more food, the hotel management doesn’t complain about their midnight arguing, and no neighbours come over to join their heated orgy session. Nah, they’re free to argue between bites of sushi.

John pulls out his phone without ending the staring competition. “Hey Siri.” The screen lights up.

“You wouldn’t-”

“What is fish egg sushi called?”

_“_ _Tobiko (とびこ) is the Japanese word for flying_ **_fish roe_ ** _. It is most widely_ **_known_ ** _for its use in creating certain types of_ **_sushi_ ** _. The_ **_eggs_ ** _are large, ranging from 0.5 to 0.8 mm. For comparison, tobiko is larger than masago (capelin_ **_roe_ ** _), but smaller than ikura (salmon_ **_roe_ ** _).”_ Siri goes away, and John is already laughing.

“We were both wrong as shit!”

Smitty groans and leans back. “Fuck this. By using Siri to insult my intelligence, you have disqualified yourself a whole bed. You’re sharing with me now.”

John says “So I’m in trouble for using sushi as a bribe tool, but you can use disrespect to earn a spot beside me? You want to sleep with me, Mr. Natrel. You are totally horn dogging my sexy ass.”

“Okay, buddy. Whatever you say,” Smitty snickers. “You’re not my type. I just hate this loveseat. It’s hard.”

“Sounds like my dick.”

Somehow the pair get ready for bed without much issue. There are some more inappropriate comments on John’s behalf, Smitty digs into the hotel fridge, and they split the tiny liquor bottles between them. Somehow, the two have managed to bond over raw fish, alcohol, and ultimately their forced time together. They don’t second guess which baby fist bottle to chug back next, and eventually they’re giggling over golf and Uno, two games they have never even played. John is in the middle of a dumb bar story when he cuts himself off with a laugh and waves it off.

“What?” Smitty leans on the bed, all too curious. “What’s so funnys?”

“Heh, you said funnys. That-That’s not a word,” John leans away, a palm flat across the neighboring laptop. “No no, I don’t wanna- it’s stupid. It’s not that funny. Just people riding go karts into the wall-”

“I thought this was at a bar?” Smitty’s head tilt is extra heavy from the Captain Morgan and Kraken rum. John gave him probably three of those anale probe worthy bottles. The thought makes him chuckle, and Smitty says “You’re saying go karts, but also the bar. I-I don’t get it. John, come on!” He complains, threatening to push John off the far end of the bed. “I’ll shove you off, I swear it!”

“Please daddy no I’ll be good I promise just don’t bring out the belt!” John rushes out. He grabs onto Smitty’s arm so the bastard can’t let go. “I go down and you go down with me, bitch!”

“Let go! Come on!” 

“That’s what your mom said last night!”

“Just tell me the bar story, John!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“You don’t tell me a half assed story then stop halfway! I’m a perfectionist, but the bar is set low on your alcoholic story.”

John pauses. “Alcoholic story?”

“Whatever. Just- Just tell me!”

They’re frozen into the hundredth staring contest of the night. There’s some laughter, and Smitty quickly finds himself looking up at the ceiling, a hard warmth around his neck. It’s so sudden he doesn’t see it coming, and he doesn’t react right away, but when he does, it’s cause he realizes what this stranger is doing. Screaming is impossible.

John has Smitty in a chokehold.

John sets Smitty down on the bed and hops off the bed, rolling both shoulder and neck. The guy was too curious, even when drunk. Best he just takes a long ass nap.

He looks over at Smitty and notices how cold the guy must be in some black pants and white tee. He needs a blanket or some shit, but he’s on top of the comforter like a fat bastard. John sighs and gets the blankets from the loveseat, tucking Smitty in.

Yes, he strangled the guy, so yes, he is dead. It’s better he did this, because John‘s secrets were more important than this stranger’s curiosity. Shame, because he was cute. If he just passed out from the alcohol, maybe he would still be alive.

John sits on the side of the bed, fists gripping the comforter, and takes a breather. Murder isn’t easy, and it can stress you out. It’s best to straighten your back, stretch, and breathe in deeply until your heart rate slows down.

_Thump thump thump._

John looks up at the ceiling as Smitty had done, but for a different reason. He hears the footsteps above him, heavy like there were combat boots stomping around up there. This is a good excuse to go for a walk…

  
  


Picks work until the hotel door slides open. The inky shadow lingers in the doorway, tools slipped back into jean pockets, listening to what’s going on inside. It’s dark, so they step in. Silent as a cat, the drifting figure on the bed doesn’t notice the tall figure drawing near.

John hasn’t always been this way, but now that he is, he can smile about what’s to come. He steps right up to the bed, the blue glow on tv lighting only half his empty expression.

The young man sleeping on the bed has the sheets half kicked off, eyelids twitching from dreamland. Warmth fills the room from the overheating TV, a faulty fan, and a far from perfect AC unit. The airline only provides a clean room and nothing more, nothing less. The poor bastard needs a good night of sleep, so-

“I can provide you a _real_ deep sleep, pal.”

The stranger shifts and opens his eyes, having only just closed his eyelids a few minutes ago. He’s sure he heard something just now, but he muted the TV. What was it? He sits up and looks around, a hand running through short, fiery red hair, wondering if there’s something going on outside. He totally heard something.

But there’s no one here. The young man takes his time getting out of bed, bare feet on the cold floorboards. He wiggles his toes, eyelids heavy, and stands up, walking to the window. He doesn’t touch the curtains or go to the closet. He also doesn’t check behind the bathroom door when he goes there. No, he is too tired to bother.

A shame.

In the middle of a yawn in front of the mirror, John steps into the bathroom and puts him into a lightning fast grip. Muscles tighten too fast for the victim to call out, only able to grab John’s flexed arm in a weak attempt to pull him off. All it does is help John constrict farther, the two of them looking at each other in the mirror, the victim panicked and terrified… and John? Focused and level headed, yet gleefully smiling from in the stranger’s head of hair. He relishes in how the choked sounds come out as strangled gags, how the toiletries end up across the floor, and the victory he feels in overwhelming his opponent.

Just as the stranger’s face begins to turn red then purple, John lets go of his locked arm, unclipping something from his belt. The knife somehow drags that last bit of resistance out of the smaller male. Maybe it’s the way the polished turquoise handle glistens…

A rerun of earlier news buzzes from in the living room. A newscaster in a gray dress talks about a possible serial killer being on the run after the story is leaked from the Washington police station. They don’t have any leads and are afraid he will kill again if he is not captured as soon as possible. What makes matters worse is the killer is known to torture and mutilate his victims, aiming for a wide variety of victims.

It’s impossible for anyone to feel the superficial sense of security by looking a certain way or by being in a certain area. Already, this serial killer has taken out a male stripper, a retired zoo keeper, a new mother, and even a young girl.

John steps from the bathroom, panting heavily with a lazy smile baring his lips as well as the blood of his victim. A tongue sneaks out to lick up the red syrup, a delicious left behind to idly admire the news. He smirks at the screen, for right there in all his hopeless beauty, is his dead roommate downstairs.

“Mr. Smitty Natrel could’ve been fun if he didn’t ask for many questions,” John muses as he wipes his knife on the throw blanket nearby.

On screen, Smitty is with others at a podium, calming the public since the news leaker about the serial killer. He said _“We are not confirming any of the details, such as the speculation our killers are linked in any way. We are still investigating these deaths and will treat them as suspicious until anything is determined otherwise, so until then, trust us to do our jobs.”_

John mock claps for the now dead officer- no wait- _detective_. A shame the bastard didn’t figure out he was with the killer he was looking for. Unless John wasn’t the one he was looking for… He frowns, turning to the dead man’s backpack in the corner. “Packed light for your trip. Makes sense…” He nods to himself and plops the backpack contents across the messy blood. He sucks his thumb off of some more blood before he gets it on any of the pinstripe shirt, striped sweaters, or jeans. “Nice ensemble you got here. Sucks you got a deep tissue massage. You know, right to the fucking stomach?” He calls over, waits for an answer, and goes back to the bag. John opens up the wallet. “Ryan, eh? I know someone too by that name. He’s not dead. You know, unlike you.” The wallet goes into his pocket and he heads to the door, a few items in hand. “Thanks for the McDick’s money, fucker.”

The door slips shut, Do Not Disturb sign in place.

What a night.

* * *

Yep, what a night indeed. This one took longer to write, but I wanted to include two crucial moments in this story, or more like one in particular - poor, poor Smitty. The second death solidifies what John is and what he stands for, and I hope you enjoyed <3


	4. Morning and Boarding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John had his fill of two lives, and he wakes up refreshed for his flight, not at all bothered with regret. Not at all.

* * *

John stayed in his second victim’s room that night, taken to bed with the strong smell of heavy copper in the air. A pleasant scent, one he could bottle and place in a diffuser one day. Not a bad idea…

He tumbles the idea and other random thoughts like a dryer would, drying them out until the attendant pulls him away. Blue eyes lazily peer up, admiring the woman and how she has two sets of eyes. A quick blink and they’re gone. Oh well, pretend that didn’t happen.

“Your boarding pass, sir.” He hands it over, tells him what’s going to happen next, and points him in the right direction. John pretends he doesn’t see twin boys standing behind him when he walks away from the lineup.

Walking across the airport is easy enough. Relaxing within the folds of his newly acquired hoodie is easy too. What isn’t easy is the disappointment he feels in himself and what he did last night - when he killed Smitty. The guy was innocent enough, at least until John caught the dead man’s face on the news, making the pieces fit together nicely.

Smitty was a detective, and he was in charge of John’s case. It may have been the smartest decision to off the curious, little shit, but it still leaves him hungering for more, like a twist within his gut. Slow curses, a hand curling within his kangaroo pouch of a pocket, and a bit lip; John is beginning to wonder if killing the detective is doing him more harm than good in the long run.

But what would have come from leaving the shadow latched to his side, itching to cuff him? He might be into that bondage kind of stuff, but John isn’t looking to go behind bars. If he has a firm understanding of cops (which he does from plenty of run ins before) then he is certain Mr. Natrel would’ve ratted him out in a heartbeat. Still, could he have turned the good cop around to the ‘dark side’ so to speak? It would have been fun to change things up from the usual stab and dash.

Isolation fills every crevice John can’t fill with blood and stolen possessions. His apathetic appearance isn’t enough to numb the desperation he fills in his fingertips, itching to reach out and contain just a fragment of company. He’s had pets before, but it… never ended well.

New section of the airport, the lobby opening like a mouth to reveal a glass ceiling and two stories, a balcony rounding like a halo above him. Signs and different stores are all that separate it from the rest of the airport, for the structure and furniture all remain the same. Oh, and the same, tired people with frustration bubbling behind their expression.

Steps add up into a static until John finds his subconscious can be useful at times. How? Because he’s in the right lineup without even searching for it. Is his plane actually here? Damn, what luck. He might get out of here before anyone even finds the bodies.

Cool.

The flight is never delayed, something John really believed would happen while they all stood in line. He’s surprised the plane doesn’t outright blow up like a firework. Maybe he’s just used to disappointment.

“Better to be prepared for every outcome rather than be ready for just one,” he mutters to himself, adjusting his backpack as just draws near to the ticket checker woman. What are they called again?

For the hundredth time it seems, his ticket is checked over, and he’s the only one to notice she’s speaking in another language.

_ “Shun kolinter denuo lin airent plont fent,”  _ she says, smiling, looking right at John with her beady, green eyes.

John squints. “What?”

“I said ‘head on up and enjoy your flight.’” The attendant is kind enough, but she appears confused by John’s lack of understanding. She said it quite clearly, just as she always had. Maybe English isn’t his first language.

John follows her instructions and heads down the hall, feeling never-ending. Yes, his mind is still hooked on last night, like a pig to shit- Is he really comparing the detective to crap? He really shouldn’t be thinking that, because it doesn’t feel true. It’s more like he’s comparing the event to whatever comes to mind first… but isn’t your first thought the truth? It would be nice if he could just decide ultimately what he’s trying to get at, because right now he feels like a car jerking forward and stopping over and over and over and over-

He stops suddenly as he recognizes the suitcase at his feet, a waiting passenger in front of him. Silent, he only nods when the flight attendant checks his ticket, telling him where to sit. Never has he been so quick to sit at his window seat, the familiar figure moving far back in the plane. John turns around in his seat to watch. He has to see exactly where the guy is going, and luckily it’s in the very back on the opposite side of the plane.

Relaxing only slightly, John slips back into his seat, but now he’s worried about the plane landing. What then?

Because he just saw the detective, and the bastard is not dead.

  
  
  


Smitty leans back in his seat, a hand gently massaging his bruised neck. “Hey, miss?” He gently asks the attendant, reaching out to get her attention when his throat can barely conjure up a word for him. “May I have a Tylenol, please?” His head is killer, and his neck is death. God, his stomach… “And a ginger ale too.”

Maybe he should have been more conservative on how much alcohol he had last night. He probably wouldn’t have these stomach, head, and neck problems. He may have gotten handsy with his roommate too, noting it silently as he touches is neck for the hundredth time today.

Waking up had been difficult, the world heavier than Smitty’s more lazy mornings. He couldn’t (and still struggles to) speak, threw up, felt dizzy, and had the worst headache on the coast. Still, his head pounds like a hammer were trying to break it open.

“Fuck…” Smitty pulls out some shades to hide away the world. “Thought I could handle my liquor better than that.”

The worst part? He can’t remember anything besides there being a rerun of Golden Girls on tv, and that he had supper at his roommate’s expense… What did they have again?

“Here’s your Tylenol and ginger ale, Sir.”

“Thank you,” he rasps out, attempting to clear his throat. It’s done out of instinct, but clearly not a good idea, for it only makes it hurt worse.  _ “I know I should’ve learned sign language,” _ he thinks to himself, popping the Tylenol back. Even swallowing the pill ain’t easy.

An attendant up front is gesturing how to do their seatbelts and where the exits are while he daydreams about possibilities from this morning. For example, where did that John guy go this morning? He must have gotten up pretty early and left, cause all his stuff was gone.

_ “Maybe I bit his tongue or something.”  _ Smitty grins at the thought. It is possible, because he’s done it once before when he was still in high school. His date didn’t want to keep going out after that. Wonder why.

The flight takes off without trouble, so he leans back to relax. Sooner he gets to Toronto, the better, because then he can get to tracking down the Washington Killer. The killer is more ‘affectionately’ named The Apple Adder, because news got out the bodies always smell like apples; sweet and tart.

Smitty would rather there’s never a name given to a killer. All it does is make them an icon for murder fans to idolize online, inspiring the next monster to bloom. The only name, if a murderer should have one, will be the one they’re born with when Smitty catches them.

He smirks, not letting no one night stand get in the way of his mission.

This bastard is going behind bars.


	5. Arrival and Wheels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was certain Detective Natrel wouldn't be a problem anymore. Smitty wondered why his roommate left so soon. Was last night really that awkward? Still, they're on the same flight, but only one knows it.

**Warning, as this chapter contains graphic descriptions of gore.**

* * *

Flight 725 crosses into Canada, and passes through the thick clouds to enter a white wonderland. Snowflakes flurry, yet are not a disturbance to the plane in its landing. Turbulence shakes them about, a normal occurrence, but doesn’t wake up one certain passenger.

Smitty managed to fall asleep during the flight, only waking up in a groggy state when an attendant nudged him. Shit, he didn’t mean to doze off. “Thanks,” he mutters quietly, adjusting his long, black coat. For some reason, it just doesn’t feel warm enough on him, but he feels safer, like he was hiding in the thick material. There’s this metaphorical chill running up his spine, as if something were off.

The lineup steps off the same way it came on, mildly tired this time around though. A child yawns, an old woman collects her flowery suitcase, and a young man in a black hoodie rushes rudely off the plane.

Smitty raises a brow at him, but ignores it. He focuses instead of pulling out his phone and turning it on. Sure enough, there’s a healthy collection of missed calls and messages. Of course whenever he has his phone on no one contacts him, but when it’s off? An avalanche. He swipes through them, friends and family just wanting to know how he’s doing, and pauses when he spots a particular name.

“Anthony? What could he want?” He says as everyone steps down off the plane, shoes and boots clicking and thumping on the metal steps. A plane is coming down somewhere in the distance, and a luggage carrier drives by. The cold, hard cement thuds under every step he takes, following the crowd into the approaching airport. He waits until they’re inside the busy building before he rings up his co-worker, hoping the announcements of flights and the idle chatter of people doesn’t intervene.

**“Smitty? God, finally! I’ve been trying to reach you for hours,”** comes the exasperated noise of Smitty’s normally cheerful friend. **“There’s been a development on the case. Another body was found in Washington.”**

He takes a deep breath, stepping over to one of the windows so he’s out of the way. Carefully, he says what he wants, attempting not to sound like death. “You serious? I just came from there, Anthony. I’m in Toronto now, you know, following the case as we agreed I would.” 

**“I wouldn’t joke about this, man. The body is about three days old, and we only found it because someone decided to buy the store model.”**

“What?”

**“The body was found inside a display fridge at a hardware store. Apparently that model wasn’t popular, so no one opened the door on it for a while… An employee noticed the smell this morning and found it.”**

“Jesus.” Smitty rubs his eyes, pushing his glasses up to do it, immediately cursing himself for not sanitizing recently. “Is there any footage of what happened? How was the victim killed?”

**“Looks like strangulation and a good whack across the head. We found the hammer he used inside another display model, a microwave. Still had the blood on it from the victim.”**

A pause.

“Is it suspected the killer is still in Washington, because my evidence clearly points to Canada. Tyler better not be thinking of pulling me out, and sent you to tell me.” his voice is firm, unrelenting, and Anthony can tell. 

**“No no, you can stay right there in the North Pole. This body is old. Not like it happened last night and shit. Just… be careful up there. You don’t have the same authority up there as you do down here.”** Anthony is worried. He’s seen the same evidence files that the detective did, and it wasn’t pretty.

Smitty smiles softly, taking a quick glance out of habit around the airport. “I’ll be fine. I used to be a cop up here, but that was a while ago.”

**“A year isn’t that long.”**

“Maybe not to someone as old as you.”

**“Hey!”**

A low chuckle and he leans into the window, looking down below at the coming and going planes. “One year or ten, it feels like forever to me.”

**“Don’t you have some old buddies up there that can help you out? You know, ring them up and suck their dick or whatever to get help in catching this sick bastard,”** Anthony casually suggests.

“Nah, none of that will happen, but I’ll get some help.” His smile softens at the memory of one particular man on the force, one he remembers fondly. “I got my gates covered, so keep your pants on, Anthony, and get back to keeping Tyler sane. I heard his girlfriend is pregnant and he’s antsy ‘cause of it.”

**“God, you have no idea. He keeps asking Aliyah what he should get before the big day. She keeps telling him the same thing; that he needs bottles, wipes, formula, diapers, and most importantly an extra large bottle of Tylenol.”**

Smitty pushes himself from the window and continues his walk down the tiled hall, heading for the food court. “Add a pacifier to that list so Tyler will shut up already. I have to hang up, Anthony. I’m starving, and I need Timmy’s.”

**“Who’s Timmy?”**

“My new lover. Email me anymore updates on the case.”

**“Alright, I’ll be sure to do that. Good luck. And take care of that cold. You sound like shit.”**

He finds a table that isn’t taped off or taken, and sits heavily in the cold, hard seat. He looks down at his hands and then the table, his insides heavy.

Another body? That would make five now. Jesus, and in the public? He’s becoming far too bold. A killer like that could go anywhere people think they’re safe, and do his dirty deeds. The others had been at a beach, in an abandoned church, at a park, and in the victim’s home. Never has it been so… _public._

_“Is he just asking to be caught?”_

Smitty gazes around the lively space, no longer out of curiosity or boredom. Now he’s concerned for the wellbeing of all the Canadians and visitors around him, because if he can’t catch this killer after over a year of trying, anyone here could be dead tomorrow. **He’s** responsible if he can’t find him. **He** took on this case. **Smitty** will be to blame.

One deep breath in, another one out, Smitty touches his neck once more. He swears it hurts more since that call. Screw him for whatever he did last night, and damn him further for not remembering how it even happened. Either way, he needs a hot drink to tame this constriction he’s feeling, and maybe a Jello cup if he’s lucky.

Too bad Tim Hortons has nothing in terms of throat friendly food. All they have here is bagels, sandwiches, donuts, and those sweet, little muffins he knows and loves. Smitty pulls out his debit and taps the machine, stepping aside to wait for his food. The lady behind the counter isn’t at all shocked by the small man and his large order of food. If he’s going to a hotel, he’s going to need a few days worth of goodies to keep himself going. He wants to limit his time being spent in stores, what with a virus going around.

A quick thanks and Smitty heads for the exit when he spots a familiar face, or more like a familiar, embroidered backed jacket. Is that..? He heads towards the baggage conveyor belt, knowing the closer he got, the more he’s confident in who’s standing there. Grinning, he steps right up to John, and nudges him. “You left early.”

John jumps, eyes wide as they look down at Smitty. It’s like he’s seen a ghost. “Smitty?”

“In the flesh,” he rubs his neck. “Though you could have been more gentle last night. I think you knocked the breath out of me, stranger.”

John is still uneasy, looking Smitty over like he is worried the guy will blow up. Better not mention that out loud in an airport, even as a joke. “Yeah… I guess I was. Sorry ‘bout that.”

Smitty raises a dark brow. “I’m okay, you know. Don’t need to look so guilty. Not like you choked me out.”

John snorts, looking down the conveyor belt. Smitty notes the man’s blonde locks have been chopped off, leaving only blonde tipped on brown. Shame, he liked the shaggy mess. “Nah, I didn’t choke you that hard, I guess. You sound like trash though.” He looks back at Smitty, his blue eyes icy. “Bet you couldn’t scream if you tried.”

The detective looks away, trying not to laugh, not noticing John’s expression is perpetual. “Guess not, or else I’d rip a vocal cord. What about last night though? I don’t remember much.” By the time he focuses back on John, the minacious gaze has settled into a more passive expression. “There was something to do with sushi and some liquor… Golden Girls was on? Really, I’m blanked on everything else.”

A white suitcase rolls down the conveyor belt behind John, the taller man leaning in close to the detective. “Best you just forget last night, Mr. Natrel.”

“It’s Smitty,” he says right back, tilting up his chin to meet John’s heavy stare. 

“I’m just keeping this relationship… professional.” A hand snakes in to push Smitty’s glasses back up, the taller grinning.

So close to another retort, Smitty instead takes notice of John’s hand tattoo of a coiled snake, black and brown, fangs bared. He’s just about to ask about it when John leans over for the white suitcase, pulling it off the conveyor belt. “Wait… When did you get a new suitcase? You didn’t have that yesterday.”

“I thought you didn’t remember much of yesterday,” John’s grin is heard behind the blue mask, a hand settling in a hoodie pocket. “You can’t remember us doing the horizontal tango under the sheets, yet you remember my damn suitcase?”

“Answer the question, John.”

“I picked it up this morning after the wheel on mine fell off.” He shrugs. “Damn thing was too old for its own good. I left it to cry in the corner, all abandoned and shit. Why? Do you feel bad for it? You can always go collect it for yourself, if you like.”

Smitty sighs and waves it off. “Whatever. I still can’t believe we keep running into each other like this. First we had to share a room, then, out of everyone here at the airport, we ran into each other here like we were the only ones around. What are the chances of that?”

“Pretty slim, I guess.” John looks around the crowded room and Smitty can tell he’s distracted by something. “So, do we part from here, or do you feel like getting another concussion tonight? I’m free after eight.”

“Hilarious.”

“But you came to me. Is there a reason you wanted to chat with the guy you were roomed with randomly, or did you just gravitate to me out of instinct? Either way, that’s pretty gay, Mr. Natrel.” He’s doing it just to bug Smitty and throw him off.

And it worked.

Smitty can’t remember the reasoning for him approaching John besides the fact that he knows him. There’s not much else there besides having knowledge of his appearance, age, and general mannerisms, like the fact John can’t look him in the eye or take anything seriously. He remembers that much from last night, and how strong he was around his neck…

“So, since we’re done here, I’m just gonna head out. That okay, or do you wanna trade spit first?” John asks like there aren't people around them, six feet away of course.

“No, it’s fine. I guess… I’ll see you later then?”

“Probably not.”

“Oh.”

_Why do I even care? He hated me yesterday, we shared a room, and now he’s leaving. I don’t care. I don’t…_ Smitty catches himself in those heavy blues, wondering if he should turn around and leave already, but it isn’t like John is leaving either. Who’s going to make the first move?

John’s attention flicks over Smitty. “I should go. Have a good one, Detective.”

As he passes the detective, Smitty turns to follow his movements. “Detective?”

A pause, and John looks back. “What? It’s a nickname, pussy.”

“I know, but-”

“Have a good one.”

This unnatural ache runs through him when the stranger is among the crowds, moving behind lineups and other obstacles. In that moment, Smitty is wishing the people, the pillars, the plants, _everything_ out of the way, just so he can have every greedy moment to himself, every second of John’s presence still with him. He feels disconnected.

A banging suitcase beside him is what wakes Smitty from his dreamlike stupor. Maybe he should just leave already. He’s been delaying leaving, and with a new body added to the pile, he needs to get out there. First thing’s first, get a taxi for his hotel, settle in, and call up his old work friends. Hopefully they’ll be open, because he needs them.

A taxi is already waiting on the curb as Smitty steps up, his coat blowing behind him in the wind. He adjusts his favorite leather gloves, a tad big on him, but unwilling to wear anything else. Just as he’s about to toss his bags into the trunk, there’s screams inside the airport, announcements muffled yet sounding panicked. The driver asks if he wants to leave, but Smitty’s curiosity holds him fast. “No, I need to see this…”

Back inside, Smitty sees panicked heads spinning around, many on phones trying to get rides out of here. Wait, if they’re so afraid, why aren’t they running from the threat? What is it?

He follows the volume of fear all the way to lost and found. Security is telling people to stay back, and an employee is crying behind the counter, blood across her hands. Smitty steps up until security holds up an arm, but he doesn’t need to get closer, because he sees what’s cause all the commotion.

It’s a green suitcase, unzipped, and guts have spilled from it’s walls across the floor. A collapsed lung, a dark red liver, stringy intestines held together by their chewed gum looking membrane, and a set of white pearls. No _, teeth._ Gruesome as it is, Smitty is locked on an understandably ignored detail.

The suitcase is missing a wheel.


	6. Gloves and Relations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smitty slept in a room with a total stranger, woke up without said stranger, his throat sore, takes his flight, lands in Toronto, sees the stranger again, and sees some guts in a suitcase. One could call that a busy 24 hours, and it only gets worse when Smitty runs into an old friend...

* * *

Officers have arrived in droves to seal off the airport and those within. They close off the crime scene and move everyone to the other end of the Toronto airport, trying to not traumatize the children and give the elderly heart attacks.

Smitty is sitting on a nearby bench, eyes locked on the suitcase. Thoughts are running a mile a minute, blocking everything else. It makes it easy for someone to walk up and find out they’re talking to themselves. This doesn’t happen when someone in particular comes up and stands in Smitty’s field of vision. Smitty looks up to complain, but his eyes land on a two star symbol and the nametag. His blood runs cold.

“Detective, huh? Didn’t think you’d get promoted that fast.” A humble grin and the Deputy crosses his arms. Smitty can hear the humor beyond the black mask, giving him away.

Smitty collects and reminds himself he was gonna have to run into this old friend eventually. “Hey, Evan.”

“You can call me Officer Fong.”

“Officer? I thought we were friends?” A sheepish smile, and Smitty feels his grip on the bench tighten. 

“Were we? You never called after you left. How long was it? A year ago already?” Evan raises a brow, his dark eyes locked on the nervous detective. “I had to find out from a coworker you were coming up. Funny, because everyone was asking  _ me _ about your arrival, as if we were close enough for you to tell me.”

“I’m sorry-”

“I don’t want to hear it, Smit.” The officer turns away, looking at the suitcase behind him. “Coincidental your killer was here when you were.”

Smitty knows Evan is trying to bait him into explaining his reasoning for being here. Anything to waste his breath so Evan can cut him off and say he already read the Washington Killer file. “Yeah. Coincidental,” is all he says instead, keeping it short and sweet.

The Washington Killer has a way of doing things with a flair, leaving the bodies in public like a treasure chest to be found. Although… “There’s just guts. No bones, skin, or body parts.”

“You mean besides for all the vital organs?” Evan sighs, chest rising and falling as he lets his arms fall back down to his sides. “No arms, legs, or head have been found. That means there could be another surprise somewhere in the airport we need to search for. Any ideas, Dr. Loomis?”

Smitty scoffs at the  _ Halloween _ nickname and stands up. He instantly regrets it as Evan is a good, half foot taller, feeling even smaller at the hard look the officer sends. “He wants it to be found. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have left it for us to find.”

“But he wanted to give himself enough time to escape,” Evan adds. “I have someone looking at the CCTV footage right now. We’ll have a description soon on what this sick fuck looks like. Excited?”

There’s been multiple descriptions and blurry pictures in the past, but none of it could ever be confirmed. The closest was a silhouette of the Washington Killer at the stripclub he found his first victim, leaning over the bar to get a double whiskey. The bartender couldn’t describe him because he didn’t think anything of the guy. The Washington Killer had been quick, not saying much except for his order and turning away as he waited, admiring the crowd. All the bartender could say was he had longer, blonde hair to shadow his face.

This being their first good look at the killer, Smitty is more than excited to say “Let’s get a look at this little shit.” There’s no darkness for the killer to have hidden behind when he wheeled the suitcase in here. They should have a clear, full face view of him.

The pair follow another officer to security. Two airport employees are already there, and they don’t look too cheerful. Not like they have much to be happy about, but the footage should be enough to perk them up a  _ little _ bit. Their eye avoidance is enough to make Evan sigh too.

“What is it? Do we have him or not?” asks Evan, looking between them.

The one guard rolls himself up to the desk where multiple monitors are set up. “The man in question is suspected of changing clothing multiple times to try and evade us. He kept his head down and wore a hat. After he leaves the suitcase, we don’t see him again.”

“What?” Smitty steps up and leans over to squint at the screens. No, it’s not cause he can’t see, because his glasses make up for that lack of a basic bodily sense, but because of his annoyance. “No one seen him? No security check, passport check, baggage tags? Anything?”

“Nothing but a passport from a John Meyer in the suitcase, and a baggage tag for a Ryan guy. John Meyer was on the 725 flight from Washington,” the man at the desk explains.

Evan looks to the second guard and asks “When did that flight come in?”

“Just over an hour ago,” whispers Smitty. “The killer was on the plane with me…”

No one hears the detective, Evan focused on the monitors instead. “Luke?”

The officer that followed them in straightens up. “Yeah?”

“Look into John Meyer and if there’s any missing passengers named Ryan. They might be tied to our Washington Killer. Could be allies or victims. I want you to figure that out. Got it?”

A nod and the officer scratches his beard, contemplating something. “Could the killer be this John or Ryan guy?”

Evan looks over. “What do you mean?”

“He could be one of them or neither. Might not even be related to the case… like a red herring.”

Smitty smiles at the officer’s smarts. “Yes, that is always a possibility. Good on you for pointing that out, Officer Patterson.” He read the nametag, making sure to remember the man for later. He seems more willing to help out in the case than most cops would be. Evan himself isn’t being all that kind, but that’s because Smitty is here and they may or may not have bad blood between them.

Evan’s lip twitches between frowning or smiling. He turns back to the monitors and notes the amount of footage they still need to weed through. “Send the last 24 hours from every camera to the station,” he asks the airport security, and the two men in unison. “Good. And Patterson? You can go and collect witness reports.”

Smitty asks “What about me?”

Evan scoffs, heading for the door. “If you weren’t the first officer on the scene, I’d send you back to the states. You can make a report on what you’ve seen and I can add it to my case.”

_ My case?  _ He said that on purpose. “You know this is legally my case, right?”

The deputy stops and turns around, the detective nearly bumping into him in the process. “Not anymore. This body- or at least  **part** of it is in  _ MY _ country, and last time I checked, you’re employed by the Washington police department, not Toronto. So, unless you have anything interesting to add,  _ Detective _ , I suggest you take some pictures and help me out.”

Only once the officer turns away does Smitty tighten his hands into fists. His leather gloves stretch against his knuckles. “Help you out? Like how you helped me?”

Evan pauses, but he doesn’t turn around; He knows exactly what Smitty is referencing.

He steps closer. “You didn’t help when I needed you, Evan. You let them drag me through the mud. Why do you think I left? ‘Cause I felt like it, eh? Is that it? I don’t deserve the treatment you’re giving me. We were close once.”

“Enough.” Evan looks over his shoulder. “You messed up. **Big**.” His dark almond eyes flick down to Smitty’s fists, frowning at the gloves. He looks forward, heading for the temporary walls made up around the crime scene. He pulls back the curtain and steps in.

Smitty could fall to his knees. Lightheaded and knees wobbling, he wants to pretend Evan doesn’t hate him, and the only way to do that would be by leaving… but this is his case. He’s been after the Washington Killer for the last year already. He knows how the man works and what his quirks are. In a sense, the killer has been leaving him clues, like the killer could sense him despite never knowing he exists. It was like this invisible bond, a thread between friends. 

And Smitty won’t let some tattered bonds ruin his chances at shortening this thread.

He looks to the security office and heads for it. The security from before is still there, and they’re confused at Smitty’s return. He acts like he’s meant to be there, nodding to the monitors. “Hey, boys. Make me up a flash drive with the last 24 hours.”

“Sir- Detective?” The one guard clears his throat. “Didn’t your commanding officer want it-?”

“Nah, it’s fine. We’re partners on the case. Now, about that floppy disk…”

“Don’t you mean flash drive?”

“Yeah, that.”

  
  


Evan is staring down at the bloody suitcase. The gore is something he’s used to from the last 8 years in the force, gazing down at the guts out of mere curiosity. Chaos was his forte in his earlier years, so he can understand the thrill the killer could have in this… hobby. There’s this feeling of being alive, of being above everybody else. To achieve this goal, the Washington Killer moved his business up north.

An officer steps up to Evan, writing in a spiral bound notebook. “Should he be called the Toronto Killer now?”

“No. That’s stupid, just like your notebook.” Evan is still looking at the guts, unmoving.

The man, older than Evan and now confused, looks at his book like the Deputy was stupid. “The Hell you talking about-?”

“Spiral bound, easy to rip out vital notes without anyone noticing.” Evan looks over, dark browns narrowed. “You plan on being discharged, officer?”

“No, sir.” The man, married with two kids and a thick mustache, turns on his heel to find a more suitable book. He mutters under his breath “Asshole.”

“Amateur.” Evan sighs and rounds the scene. He crouches down. Someone walks by behind him and his eyes dart to the side, listening. His sharp ears can tell music notes, a good deal, and regulation shoes.

And the stranger he sees at their investigation cart is wearing Doc Martens, solid black. Not regulation. His eyes trail up, watching every move of this stranger, his back to the deputy. Slowly, he begins to stand up, hand moving to his belt. The opening of the snap is enough to make the stranger straighten up, already knowing what that means. Evan says “I’m giving you ten seconds to explain yourself, ya little shit.”

The stranger slowly turns, and a frightened face meeting Evan’s when he sees the gun. “I’m sorry. What did I do?” Evan nods to the boots and he looks down. “I’m sorry, sir, but-”

Evan isn’t satisfied. He comes over and is eye to eye with the new recruit. “You don’t need to be here. Get out of my sight, and buy regulation boots while you’re at it.”

He hasn’t always been this way. There was a time Evan was carefree and went with the flow. He admired the world for its beauty, but this job beat it out of him, leaving behind a shell that frowns down on evil. There was a short time somewhere in the middle he experienced happiness, euphoria even, but it was short lived as many things are. Laughs turned to hugs, hugs turned to kisses, and kisses to revenge.

Evan shoves the recruit to the curtain, knowing the new guy won’t say anything. He fucked up first, and what’s he going to do, complain he got manhandled a bit? Evan sighs at his own, twisted excuse, already feeling bad. No, he shouldn’t be feeling guilty; that newbie isn’t wearing the proper uniform, and could be easily mistaken as the suspect. Evan is sure he saw it happen in a movie before where the killer came back to the crime scene, dressed like any other crime scene investigator. He managed to steal crucial evidence and it set the main hero back. At least Evan can trust his team.

  
  
  


Smitty pops the flash drive between his teeth as he does up his coat, the bottom of it already blowing in the winter winds. A yellow taxi with a teal hood pulls up, that beautiful sign on top lit up. A lady steps out with her kid and he slips in, letting the driver put his suitcase in the trunk. Could he have ordered an Uver driver instead? Probably, but he isn’t looking to be surrounded by magazines, water bottles, snacks, and a persistent driver who almost begs for five stars.

“Where are you going?” The nice driver adjusts the Hawaiian dancer on his dashboard. 

Smitty notices a whole collection of bobbleheads, pretending that they aren’t a driving distraction long enough to say “The Intercontinental, please, and thank you.” He made the reservation last week when he was putting the clues together in Washington. Not exactly telling his superior about it, he kept it under wraps until he felt confident enough to tell him. The Chief of Police, Tyler, was impressed with Smitty’s planning while others were upset he didn’t come forward with his plans right away. Tyler is the only reason he was given permission to carry his case up north.

If only the Washington Killer didn’t take his spree into Canada. Now Smitty is expected to share his evidence and conclusions with strangers. Well, except for Evan. Shame Evan is the only guy he knows around here, because this old friend is really acting like old friends lately.

Smitty sighs and rests his head on the cool, frosty glass. He breathes in slowly. He holds it. Then he breathes out. He knows he needs to relax. He only just arrived in Toronto and he’s already found a body (part of one) and ran into Evan of all people. “Fuck…” He runs a hand back through his short locks, lips parted in an attempt to relax.

That wheel on the fucking suitcase.

  
  
Smitty grins to himself, eyes closed at that vital clue. Is anyone even going to notice it? He certainly did, and after he finds his hotel room, he’s going to track this killer down, because he knows something nobody else does. The reason he knows is because the killer  _ wants _ him to know. The thread between them is being pulled tight, and all he has to do now is shorten the distance to the killer.

Smitty smiles at his reflection in the window. “I’ll see you soon… John.”


End file.
